Carter #2
He’s clearly low on the totem pole—maybe a social media intern or a logistics runner—the kind of position that doesn’t require being at the track until later. He’s leaning back with a red plastic cup, looking like he’s won the lottery just by being invited. He’s my best bet.
I grab his collar and yank him down so he can hear me over the bass. "Where is he?"
The guy blinks, startled, his drink sloshing precariously close to my hand. "Whoa. Feisty."
"Dominic," I snap, my patience paper-thin. "Where is he?"
"Inside? Upstairs, maybe? I don't know," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the house. "He disappeared like an hour ago. Probably got sick of people asking him for selfies."
I release him with a shove. "Move."
The interior of the mansion is just as I remember. It’s the same maze of high-end art and wall-to-wall trophies from the first time I was forced inside, only now it’s packed with college kids who look like they’ve never seen the inside of a laundromat.
Every gleaming silver cup and framed podium photo feels like it’s mocking me, a literal shrine to the Valerio name that I’m currently stuck navigating. Still no Dominic. My frustration sharpens into something reckless.
I head for the stairs.
I’ve never been to the second floor. The higher I climb, the more the noise dulls into a distant thrum. The hallway is lined with closed doors and soft carpet, feeling far more private—and far more off-limits—than the floor below.
I stop at the end of the hall. The door is ajar.
I push it further open, bracing myself for another assault of gold and silver, but the room is... quiet.
It’s unmistakably him—the scent of expensive leather, and that faint, sharp metallic tang of a racing garage—but it’s a jarring departure from the rest of the mansion.
There are no floor-to-ceiling trophy cases here.
No framed newspaper clippings or backlit podium shots.
Downstairs is a museum dedicated to the family name, curated with clinical precision.
This room feels like a bunker in comparison.
The walls are mostly bare, save for a few dark, minimalist prints, but my eyes snag on a single, small frame sitting on the nightstand. It looks out of place in a room this modern, this controlled.
It’s a younger Dominic and Luka. They’re barely teenagers, their faces lacking the sharp, cynical edges they both carry now. They’re standing on either side of a dark-haired woman with a radiant, tired smile, the family resemblance unmistakable in the set of their eyes.
Luka is grinning at the camera, already looking like he owns the world, but it’s Dominic who draws my attention.
He’s smaller then, his expression unusually soft as he clutches a stuffed animal to his chest—a small, worn-out plush bear with one ear matted down.
It looks like it’s been through a hundred pretend races and survived them all.
Something in my chest loosens without my permission. The arrogant persona doesn't fit with the kid in that photo. A soft smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
"Breaking and entering," Dominic says, his voice a low vibration that cuts through the muffled bass from downstairs. "Bold choice, Shortcut."
I spin, my heart doing a little dance against my ribs for getting caught. Dominic’s leaning against the far wall by the attached bathroom door.
He’s dressed in raw, dark denim and a matte black shirt that clings to his shoulders, looking less like a host and more like a tactical weapon. His hair is messily pushed back, and a single beer dangles from his fingers.
My first, treacherous thought is how good he looks.
The contrast between the dark clothes and his skin, the sharp, clean lines of his silhouette—it’s a perfect design, a blueprint I shouldn’t be appreciating, but am.
My gut clenches in that dangerous, visceral way it does when I’m near him, and I hate it.
I hate that my default setting for him is admiration in this moment, even when I'm ready to commit murder.
He doesn't look surprised to see me. He looks like he was waiting for me to trip the wire.
I exhale slowly, forcing my brain to switch back to diagnostic mode. He’s not a flawless design; he’s a faulty machine. I need to find the leak. "Your party is loud. In case you were wondering."
He lifts the bottle in a mock salute. "That’s sort of the point of a party."
"You’re losing control of it," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the outside.
"Am I?" His mouth twitches, but he doesn't move. He just watches me from the dim light.
"Yes. It’s obnoxious."
He straightens slightly, his attention flicking to the photo on the nightstand before returning to me with a sharp, clinical intensity. "You always this honest when you’re trespassing?"
"Only when people throw parties like they’re trying to drown out their own thoughts."
Dominic studies me for a long moment. Then he smiles—a slow, dangerous thing that feels like a lie he’s telling himself. He pushes off the wall, stalking toward me with that predatory grace that usually belongs on a track. "You came looking for me."
"I came looking for quiet," I reply, my voice steady even if my pulse is a riot. "You failed spectacularly."
He takes a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving mine as he stops just outside my personal space. "And yet, here you are. In my room."
"Where’s your dad?"
The question tumbles out before I can stop it—a frantic, clumsy diversion because my brain is currently malfunctioning.
Being alone in this room with him, looking like everything I’m supposed to avoid, has my pulse doing triple-digits.
I needed a bucket of cold water to throw over the tension, and for some reason, I reached for his father.
The reaction is instant. Dominic doesn't just flinch; he recoils internally. A sharp huff of breath—half-laugh, half-snarl—escapes him. "Why?" He steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can smell the bite of his beer. His voice drops to a whisper. "Am I not good enough?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with weight. It’s the first time I’ve heard a crack in the armor—a tiny, flickering hint of uncertainty that he’s trying to drown in bravado.
"He’s probably out screwing his flavor of the week," he adds, his tone turning humorless.
"Sounds familiar," I snap.
Dominic actually flinches this time. His expression seizes tight enough to look painful. He doesn't look away, but he takes a long, brutal pull of his beer, holding the bottle with a grip that looked one second from shattering it.
"Charming," I mutter, though the victory feels more like a crash. "The whole family, really."
The insult is the catalyst. Dominic sets the beer bottle down on the dresser with a muffled thud and steps into my space before I can even blink. I instinctively retreat, but I only make it two steps before my shoulders hit the wood of the bedroom door.
He doesn’t stop until he’s a breath away. He plants one hand on the door above my head, his arm casually draped but blocking my only exit. His chest is so close I can feel the warmth rolling off him through my shirt, nearly brushing against mine with every shallow breath I take.
He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks... searching. His eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, are scanning mine with a rare uncertainty that makes my stomach flip.
"Why the interest in my father?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration. "You looking for a comparison? Or just a distraction?"
"Maybe I just prefer the original to the knock-off," I bite back.
It’s a lie, and we both know it. But the sheer audacity of it earns a sudden, unexpected laugh from him. He tilts his chin back, the sound short and sharp, and I find myself tracking the pulse jumping in the corded vein of his neck.
When he tilts his head back down to meet my level, the air between us practically hums.
Everything else—the bass vibrating the floorboards, the assignment waiting in the pool house, the very reason I’d stormed over here in the first place—evaporates.
I can’t even remember the sequence of events that led me to this door.
The timeline of my life has shrunk down to this exact second, centered entirely on the closeness of his chest and the way the blackout carves his features into something dangerous.
There is a long, heavy pause. My eyes ping-pong back and forth between his, searching the dark depths for a reason to run or a reason to stay. The silence is thick, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike.
"You don't scare me, Dominic," I murmured, though the words feel less like a fact and more like a dare I’m throwing at my own pulse.
He leans in a fraction closer, until his nose brushes against mine. I can smell the crispness of the beer on his breath. His gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat before locking back onto my eyes.
"You should reconsider that," he murmurs.
I don't blink. I don't move. I’m rooted to the spot by a gravity I didn't agree to. "I don't take orders."
A slow, dark smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he breathes, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing line along the edge of my jaw, hooking just under my chin to tilt my face further up. "That’s becoming a significant problem."
I swallow hard, the sound loud in the small space between us. I’m desperate for a distraction—anything to stop my brain from cataloging the exact temperature of his hand on my skin.
"You shouldn't be drinking," I murmur, my voice sounding more like a confession than a reprimand. "You’re heading to the track tomorrow. It’s reckless."
Dominic doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even blink. "It’s the only one I’ve had," he says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something dark and private. He hesitates, his thumb stalling on my chin. "It helps take the edge off."